


not quite nowhere to turn

by voidify



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AWP (angst without plot), Angst, Depression, Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Gen, M/M, PTSD, Self-Loathing Issues, Suicide, Survivor Guilt, all brick inaccuracies fully intentional for doylist reasons, and many other allusions to the musical, and the fluff is EVEN SUPERER EFFECTIVE, because i can neither write nor read pure 100 percent unmitigated angst, brief invocation of a heartbreaking parallel from canon, but if you do ship them the angst is SUPER EFFECTIVE, canon character death, filling my own kinkmeme prompt, if those tags don’t make it clear enough: THIS IS NOT A FIX IT, my first fic ever published on ao3 so please give me feedback!, so I recommend shipping them if you're gonna read this, there’s a heaven epilogue to make it not a complete downer ending, this can easily be read as platonic if you don’t ship them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 01:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16630025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidify/pseuds/voidify
Summary: Valjean was never quite sure, in retrospect, what had possessed him to take a walk by the Seine after he took Marius to safety. But whatever the reason, he found himself doing so, idly listening to the rushing water as he walked downstream along the northern bank.It was after midnight, in the early hours of the seventh of June, when he witnessed a scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life.We all know the Post-Seine genre, where Javert survives the river by Valjean’s intervention. Well, this fic’s almost like that... except for the tiny detail that Valjean’s just a bit too late.





	not quite nowhere to turn

**Author's Note:**

> The use of double quotes, single quotes and unquoted italics all for different purposes is intentional, inspired by some great fics I’ve read.
> 
> This is my first fic ever posted to AO3! Like I said in the tags, this is technically the fill for [my own kinkmeme prompt](https://lesmiskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/11027.html?thread=14636563); I got the idea, posted it there hoping someone else would write it, then grew confident enough in my own writing to write it myself.
> 
> Many thanks to merelydovely for her great beta reading work!
> 
> Anyway enjoy~~~ (evil grin)

Valjean was never quite sure, in retrospect, what had possessed him to take a walk by the Seine after he took Marius to safety. But whatever the reason, he found himself doing so, idly listening to the rushing water as he walked downstream along the northern bank. 

Clouds covered the sky; the full moon shone down, bright as always and appearing almost golden in contrast with the dark, grey-blue clouds, but the stars were all obscured.

It was after midnight, in the early hours of the seventh of June, when he witnessed a scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

When the Pont-au-Change came into his view, he immediately noticed a shape protruding from the top of its silhouette that was not normally there; he focused upon this shape, and now could see it was a man standing on the parapet. He could not discern any more detail from his current distance, but whoever this man was, it was obvious that he did not intend to live another day—

And whoever he was, Valjean couldn’t let that happen.

No conscious thoughts were involved in Valjean’s next actions, only pure instinct, the sheer unclouded need to save the life of this apparent stranger. Barely a second after the moment the man came into his view, Valjean was already running as fast as he could down the street, trying to reach the bridge before it was too late, yelling fragments of a plea not to jump in the general direction of the man in the hope that they might reach his ears: “WAIT—NO—MONSIEUR—PLEASE—DON’T—”

Then, in a sudden moment of horror, Valjean _realised_. Though it seemed by the man’s complete lack of reaction to Valjean’s cries that he had not yet come into earshot, the distance had been reduced enough that Valjean’s eyes now registered far more detail than before, and in a heart-stopping moment, it all came together. The man’s long, grey hair shining in the moonlight—the greatcoat he was wearing—the top hat on the parapet beside him— this man about to kill himself was Javert. The same Javert who had hunted Valjean for twenty years, who Valjean had freed from the barricade the previous day, who in turn had allowed Valjean to go free earlier that night.

But before Valjean had any chance to react to this knowledge, it was already too late. The man—Javert—did not jump exactly; instead, raising his arms halfway to form a cross-shaped silhouette and turning his head upward as if to take one last glance at the night sky, he tipped forward over the edge of the parapet, allowing himself to fall.

_No—_

Valjean tripped, fell to his knees. He clasped his hands over his mouth to suppress a sudden nausea. He sat there crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut, back slumped, face turned down towards the paved path, tears falling uncontrollably from eyes scrunched shut.

_He’s dead—he’s dead—oh my God, he’s dead—I could have saved him—if only—oh God—_

Valjean could not say how long it took—the seconds and minutes melded together in this utter state of despair—but eventually, he found the strength to stand again. Mindlessly, he began to walk, and was soon standing at the very same point of the bridge, right beside where Javert’s hat still rested on the parapet. He placed a hand right where Javert had stood, and looked down into the raging river that had just claimed Javert’s life. 

_What have I done? Sweet Jesus, what have I done?_

In some inexplicable way, these words of despair that came to his mind seemed to slot into the situation seamlessly, as if their rhythm was somehow perfectly matched to the cosmic melody that accompanied the events he had just witnessed. Valjean immediately dismissed that thought as absurd; no sound had truly been there but the noise of the river and his own desperate yells. And yet, though he knew this, he could not shake the association.

For a terrifying moment, some urge commanded him to follow the other man, to take the leap himself, but he did not—could not. Instead, he gripped the edge of the parapet tightly—the same point Javert had been standing at the moment he fell, he thought, suppressing a sob—holding his face in his other hand as he wept for what could have been.

_I’m so sorry._

 

***

 

Somehow, this death affected him more than any other he had witnessed. In the case of fellow prisoners from Toulon, his soul had been too hardened to mourn; with Fantine, he knew rationally that she had been too ill to help, and fulfilling his promise to help Cosette had eased the lingering guilt; with the young ones at the barricade, he had barely known them. But with Javert… even though they had been at odds for all those years, even though Javert’s goal had always been to arrest him, everything about this loss troubled Valjean deeply.

The grief hadn’t been dulled by coldness of heart, like in the bagne—Valjean had learned to love in the years since then, learned to care. 

It hadn’t been hopeless, like with Fantine—some part of Valjean always nagged at the back of his mind when he lay in bed at night, repeating over and over again _‘You failed. If you had run a little faster, called a little louder, then maybe you could have saved him, but you didn’t, and now he’s dead.’_

And, most of all, it hadn’t been impersonal, like with the rebels—Javert had known him better than any other. Nobody alive now knew him as Valjean; everyone thought of him by some false name or another, even his own daughter. Though his rational side nagged him that it was good none knew him as Valjean now, for to be known was a danger, his heart was still deeply pained by such a loss. Had circumstances not prevented it, Valjean found himself musing, perhaps they could have shared a positive bond… but now he would never know.

 

***

 

Since that night, Valjean had lost his strength. Yes, he was losing it already from age and inactivity, but just hours prior to Javert’s death he had been capable of carrying a grown man through the sewers, and now he was barely stronger than the average man of his age. It was hard to believe that he had once been the feared convict ‘Jean-le-Cric’.

Yes, he was free; the one man in France with an interest in his capture was no longer a threat… but at what cost?

 

***

 

Valjean returned to that bridge many times in the next twelve months. Every time, he felt that same call of the void that had tempted him to follow Javert that night; every time, he resisted it, citing some unfinished business or some unfulfilled promise or how Cosette would miss him; every time, he tried not to cry, but failed.

Every time, he whispered broken apologies to the man he couldn’t save.

 

***

 

Valjean was no stranger to having painful memories inextricably linked to small, insignificant things, things that would otherwise be benign or even pleasant— no matter how many years separated him from the horrors of Toulon, the scars it had left on his mind could be invoked in an instant, just by the sight of the colour red or the smell of the sea. He had learned to hide it, to pretend he was fine, to keep these moments as hidden from the world as all the other evidence of his past— but the fact that he had to conceal his distress in these moments only made them hurt more.

And now, Javert’s death haunted him just the same. Things like the sound of rushing water, or the sight in a crowd of a man who seemed to resemble Javert, or a cloudy night where the moon could be seen but not the stars—they could catch him off guard, bring his mind back to that night for a second. He would always soon catch himself, remind himself that it had been long since then, that it was over. That nothing could be done now. 

It never made him feel any better to tell himself that; indeed, quite the opposite.

 

Valjean knew that this affliction of the mind, to be cursed with constant reminders of a tragedy, was not unique to him. Once, he saw an indication that his son-in-law suffered from the very same. That day, they were walking through the city, and when they passed a particular building, Marius’ breath hitched and he flinched like he had seen a ghost. Valjean did not ask for an explanation, but Marius rushed to give one nonetheless. “I— I am sorry… my friends used to meet there, before…” He trailed off, looking away. 

Valjean’s only response was a solemn nod of understanding.

 

***

 

Eventually, Valjean started ‘forgetting’ more and more often to eat, to get enough sleep, to set the fire in cold weather, to open the windows in hot weather, to bring an umbrella on walks in the rain, to take care of his health. He had convinced many (almost including himself) that these omissions were only due to the folly of age, but in truth, their cause was a growing, inescapable apathy to his own survival.

 

When death came, he did not resist.

 

 

 

 

…

 

Then, 

opening his eyes, 

he saw a white void around him,

 

and in front of him, Javert.

 

His eyes widened and his jaw dropped as he was overcome with an indescribable mix of emotions. Before he knew it, he ran forward and hugged Javert as tight as he could, tears streaming down his face. A few seconds passed, and he felt Javert’s arms close around him too.

 

Neither of the two ghosts spoke out loud, but the words passed between them nevertheless, directly from soul to soul.

_‘I’m sorry—if I had only—’_

_‘If— if I knew you were there, if I knew how you would— I— I wouldn’t have—’_

_‘I failed—I could’ve saved you—’_

_‘No—it was my— I should have known a better way to set you free—’_

_‘I should’ve—it’s—I hesitated, and then—’_

_‘No—you didn’t—and anyway—’_

_‘I’m so, so sorry—’_

_‘I don’t blame you, for anything.’_

 

This caught Valjean off guard. He loosened his grip on Javert and looked up at the other man’s face.

_‘… really?’_

 

Javert’s features formed a bittersweet smile, and he nodded.

_‘Yes, really. Nobody else does, either. Come on now. Everyone’s waiting for you.’_

**Author's Note:**

> At one point it occurred to me that I could reduce the “too late” interval by a bit and have Javert die in VJ’s arms, but I’m not _that_ level of evil. 
> 
> Obligatory less-angsty afterlife epilogue is obligatory; I love afterlife fics. I actually have plans for a multi-chapter brick-based afterlife fic of valvert “fast slowburn” (like, they both have Issues to work out before the fluffy ending can happen, but I have very little patience). It's called “When Tomorrow Comes”, and its first chapter will hopefully be published sometime in December. Though this and that are overall two completely different fics, there are some common themes, so if you found this fic good you might enjoy that one.
> 
> You might notice that I didn’t even try to touch on the angst of Valjean realising that he might have been why Javert went to the bridge in the first place in this fic. The doylist reason was because there was already MORE THAN ENOUGH angst induced by the premise, but once chapter 1 of When Tomorrow Comes is out, I’ll be able to better explain my brick-compliant headcanon watsonian reason (also, that fic is gonna have LOTS of that kind of angst, soooooo...)
> 
> Please kudos and comment if this made you feel feelings; I’m an anxious child and positive feedback gives me motivation to continue writing.


End file.
